The Game

The Game:

a. Type your answer to each of the questions below into Flickr Search.

b. Using only the first page, pick an image.
c. Copy and paste each of the URLs for the images into fd's mosaic maker.

The Questions:

1. What is your first name?

2. What is your favorite food?

3. What high school did you go to?
4. What is your favorite color?

5. Who is your celebrity crush?
6. Favorite drink?

7. Dream vacation?

8. Favorite dessert?

9. What you want to be when you grow up?

10. What do you love most in life?

11. One word to describe you.

12. Your Flickr name.

My Answers:

1. Rachel

2. Wine and Cheese

3. Christian Fellowship

4. Blue

5. Gabriel Macht

6. Mojito

7. Europe by Train
8. Cupcake

9. Writer, Painter, Friend
10. My Shepherd

11. Mess

12. Knees-in-water

Dragon

Let’s talk about my homie C.S. Lewis for a minute. The man was a genius. In one of his books The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, there is a boy named Eustace who wanders off by himself to be lazy, takes a nap, and wakes up as a dragon. (For those of you that haven’t read it; I won’t spoil it, I guess you’ll just have to wait for the next movie to come out…) Eustace and I have a point of convergence.

I didn’t wander off into a cave; I wandered out of college and into adulthood. I didn’t take a nap, I just took a long and difficult walk through the woods. But here are Eustace and I at the same place, gazing into the same pool, slowing acknowledging the horrific reality of our transformation. Confusion and fear are only the tip of the iceberg. I stare at my reflection; the hideous snout, the wicked eyes, the fire in my lungs, and the scaly armor that has taken me captive. Where I had hands that comforted, now only brutish talons; eyes that once looked for beauty and intricacy, now only look at the surface; where I had words to love, now only fire, smoke, and snarls. I am a dragon in the truest meaning of the name.

This armor: what a thing to behold, it’s marvelous really. It’s thick, tough, and nearly impenetrable. I’ve come to rely on its protection- the safety of my scales. Wrapped in its defense, I learned how to capitalize on the gift of strength, and miracle of flight. But now it’s got to go. This thick skin, these ugly scales-they all have to go. In the book, there comes a point when Eustace has to fight for his release by clawing the scales off of his body. So here I am, sitting in a muddy stream allowing the hot steam of my tears and hurt disturb the landscape around me; scraping, clawing, scratching at my own scaly skin in painful futility. I’m over flying on my own, I’m tired of the destruction, and weary of the fire of my words. I want to trust in the protection of Another, I want to embrace the humility of my frailty, and fly only in the safety of the shadow of His wings. And so, in my own effort I scrape at my skin shedding one skin, then a second, and then a third but remain as dragon as ever. Until He says “You have to let me do it.” Now all I can do is try to sit still and let Him.

Oh, the redemption found in being known. It must be hard to love a dragon- but I am a loved lizard, completely despite the harshness of my exterior and the shame of my poor choices. It’s been a great week. It started with a late night conversation with an old friend to remind me where my feet are planted, and then a spontaneous worship service reminded me how I grow; the whispers of the former resonating in my spirit as loudly as the echoes off the walls of the latter. Each day of this week has been saturated with hugs and encouragement, wonderful time with old friends, and quality time with new ones; and all the while He sings over me and the rain pours down and runs over me like sheets of ice as I sit on a porch and listen to their music and pray for their hearts. And He sings over me, while He scrapes my scales, and the rain washes me, and He sings, He sings, He sings.

So thanks, dearest ones, for remembering, or believing, that there is beauty under all of this hideous strength. And thank you for being so very patient while this dragon becomes a little more human, and a little more holy, every day.

Unfair

Are you effing kidding me?! The cutest little buggers on the face of the whole planet. Don't even try to tell me there is anything cuter.

This Old House

I’m flirting with a great love affair with this city.

There’s a fountain at 50^th and State Line that, at night, feels like something out of fairy tales, or maybe memory. There’s a soft sound of remembrance in the water hitting itself, and a soft romance in the brightness of the yellow tulips against the icy blues of a full moon-lit evening. It’s about to rain. The ground already looks wet, and the sky is that pale lavender that’s too light for midnight. Lightening occasionally flashes in silence, almost like it’s trying to sneak up behind you. There’s such a deliciousness about the breeze that you want it to throw your hair into tangles and give you goosebumps.

Everything is something out of memory tonight. I have a memory of sitting on the front porch of the house that I grew up in, the murmur of the attic fan in the background. The air is cool, and bench is uncomfortable. I’m antsy and a little scared, but my daddy is next to me. Sometimes he has his guitar. The air is still for a minute. And then the breeze gets cooler, quicker. Thunder clears its throat in the distance. Rain begins a steady march over us. Then quicker, louder. I get bored too soon and go inside, dragging my hands against the uneven surface of the walls, textured by fifty years of paint. The moisture makes my feet stick the hardwood floor. I patter into my room with the pink walls. The pink walls that used to be blue, long before we moved in. I know this by the large chunks of paint that I’ve peeled off beneath the window sill. Even now I can see their exact spot in my mind. I remember the feelings of delight and guilt as I chipped away at small spots making them larger. All of the windows are open and the humidity and fresh air is stirring up the smells of old wood and paint, and marrying them with ones of spring and rain. I crawl between the cool softness of my sheets as it gets brisker and the rain gets louder; my pulse quickens and I consider running to my parents but decide to brave. Instead, I lay in quiet vanity focusing on my courage while the colors, smells, and gentle sounds of music and rain blur into the sleep of a seven-year-old.

Office Lighting

There are water-droplets on the side on my Styrofoam cup: a dozen perfect little spheres standing up like proud tiny prisms turning the fluorescent glare of my office lights into something a bit more beautiful.

As always, I’m thinking about things far beyond standard-afternoon-office-business, and therefore mostly irrelevant to what I’m doing right now. It’s estimated that 100,000 people died in a cyclone in Myanmar, a 6.8 earthquake rattled Tokyo today, and food shortages continue to spark riots around the globe. I can’t help wondering how much longer all of this can go on. I can’t help feeling that as a planet, we are nearing that “something’s got to give” point. Granted, I’ve seen far too many end-of-the-world epics, and my imagination does tend to be a bit overactive in general; but the fact of the matter is that if we believe the Bible, then the end of the world is coming. I’m not going to go all eschatogious on you, but I’ve been thinking. I love my job. I actually like going to work. But, what exactly am I doing to bring the Kingdom of God. I mean, I know that I’m in the right place for right now. It’s just kind of hard to see the eternal significance of expense reports, budgets, and event planning. Bah! I’m just antsy.

Well, let’s just say that the Mother Theresa biography “Come Be My Light” will mess your world up. In a good way.

And the Desert Blooms

Today is the type of day that poems are written for. Poets are inspired to write and readers inspired to read with rhyme and romance. Everyone comes together in an appreciation of true beauty. The sky is its most brilliant blue, the blanket boldest yellow; faces are sun-kissed and hair is wind-blown. And the very grass dances with such passionate grace that one feels certain it must sing as well. The lawn is freckled with violets and dandelions; perhaps they are weeds, but still they are the bearers of the wishes of our youth. Today is a day that the air smells like healing-it seems taboo to discuss anything but pleasant things. The sunlight, the perfect green of the new growth, the earth, and the air- all sing the unity of humanity and of nature and of the two of them together. All of them in a harmonious chorus of worship for the Creator. Every sigh of contentment is a whisper of thanksgiving to the Designer of this day.

Humanity is a loaded word. It can be used to describe something huge and vague or something deeply personal. Humanity is a hideous beautiful thing. All at once it sums up the best and worst parts of personality. It tells of sin, failure, and frailty; compassion, laughter, and life. Humanity is a painful joyous place to be. But maybe, maybe all this pain and discomfort and growth is the process of refining. When the Bible talks about the refining process of metals, I always thought of the end result. I never considered what it must be like to be "in it." I've definitely been "in it" for a good many months now. I'm a sad, broken, tarnished, beautiful thing at the mercy of my maker. The thing about refining is that it brings out the ugly. But the ugly doesn't just steam out and vanish into nothingness. No, unfortunately for me and those around me it floats to the top and gathers. It gathers and gathers and draws more to itself until it's hard to see what was underneath. But all that underneath is everything that it was and becoming more beautiful than before-still, hidden under the ugly. Ugly until the Creator comes to scrape it off. The scraping HURTS. Purification that makes the skin burn and the limbs ache and the heart faint, until everything glows with new light. Forgiveness. Holiness in all its icy fire, in all its unadulterated brilliance. Getting there, under all the ugly, I'm getting there.

"And the desert blooms, He makes all things new."

Unfin...ishe...d.

I bought a bike yesterday.
I can't wait to ride it! I need to buy a helmet and lock for it, but I have grand plans for it! But it should be stated that I'm a poor follow-through on grand plans.
Things that I have had grand plans for in the past year:
1. Learning to play guitar
2. Refreshing my piano skills
3. Writing letters
4. (At least) 3 paintings
5. Learning to knit
6. Becoming awesome at sewing; starting with a t-shirt quilt, ending with my eventual appearance on Project Runway
Things currently in grand-plan process:
7. Herb garden
8. Teaching myself French
9. BIKE!
SOOOOOOO eight things to half-do in the course of a year is A LOT. Now I have a guitar, a keyboard, a lot of cards, half-painted canvases, knitting needles and yarn, a sewing machine, Pots, Rocks, and Soil, French books and CDs (on loan from the library though!), and a beautiful blue bike. All listed like that makes me seem a bit crazier than I realized. Just call me Cornflake.

Maybe all the unrest in my life is a need to learn to follow through.